


Proprietary Marks

by misbegotten



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-28
Updated: 2017-02-28
Packaged: 2018-09-27 13:46:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10023476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misbegotten/pseuds/misbegotten
Summary: Adrenaline is the aftermath of crisis.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [out_there](https://archiveofourown.org/users/out_there/gifts).



> Post "The Final Problem." This is entirely Annie's fault. _Sigh._

"Sherlock said to look after you." Greg's fingers are fisted in the sheets as Mycroft rims him. He juts roughly against the fabric, makes a punched out sound as he comes.

"I believe that I am currently looking after you," Mycroft notes in that infuriating, posh tone. How the hell he can sound composed with his tongue up Greg's arse is an eternal mystery. He hadn't been as unruffled when Greg tore the buttons off his waistcoat. The offending garment is somewhere on the floor, along with the rest of their clothes. Except the tie.

Greg twists, pulls Mycroft with him. Laves an open mouthed, bruising kiss on his chest. A calling card. Mycroft is _his_. Fuck Eurus. 

"We need to have a conversation about acceptable risks," Greg says when he can find words again.

Mycroft raises an eyebrow. That's infuriating too. Greg can't manage a single raised brow, though he tried in the mirror once and just felt foolish. Why has the best sex of his life come from this man? Holmes pheromones, maybe. How John has restrained himself from tackling Sherlock when he ponces about half the time in pyjamas is beyond Greg.

Mycroft puts out his wrists obediently as Greg loops the silk tie over them. "I am currently fine," Mycroft says serenely. As if that's all that matters when he's nearly been blown up, seen various people die in front of him, been terrorized and drugged by his sister, and tried to goad his fucking brother into fucking shooting him. 

Maybe "currently fine" is all that matters to Mycroft. Well fuck Eurus again. There's no safe word for life, unfortunately. Greg knew what he was signing on for with Mycroft. But damned if he's not going to leave his mark on Mycroft. Repeatedly and with vigour. Because the danger of losing Mycroft has made him a little more precious, and Greg didn't think that was possible.

"Stop thinking," Mycroft says, reading Greg's thoughts as always. He's flushing, high colour on his cheeks and thighs, at the tenor of those thoughts. Greg pretends not to notice. 

"Right," Greg says. He's more than willing to erase the traces of Eurus from Mycroft's psyche with the judicious application of his own body. His lips quirk, though. "You realise that Sherlock has basically given us his blessing."

Mycroft groans. "Stop. Thinking. About my siblings."

Right again. Talking later. Reassurance now. There's no need to hash out a conversation that Mycroft can predict with alarming precision anyway. He'll make Mycroft's body a canvas of his own. The fact that the marks can't be seen beneath Mycroft's bespoke suit only makes everything hotter. 

Mycroft is precisely as strong as he thinks he is. But for Greg, he's willing to cede a little bit of control. And that's scorching.


End file.
